Prime Minister?
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: A slight mixup of time leads to Isobel and Harriet Jones, Prime Minister, finding themselves a little bit lost.
1. Chapter 1

**Bit of a crack fic. Just two crazy scenes that sprang into my mind. How would it be if there was something of a crisis of certain Penelope Wilton characters?**

It was a pleasant morning. Matthew thought that Crawley House looked particularly pleasant at breakfast time, the morning colours suited it, and he sat contentedly at the breakfast table reading his newspaper. The only thing out of the ordinary was that his mother was not down before him; she usually rose early to eat something and then head over to the hospital for a few hours before lunch. He was not worried, though, he could hear her walking about overhead- he presumed that she had overslept- and presently he could hear the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.

The door of the dining room opened.

"Good morning, mother," he said without looking up from the paper, taking a drink of tea, "Did you oversleep? Well, never mind, I'm sure Dr. Clarkson will forgive you this once."

For some reason, his mother was quite quiet, and hadn't taken her seat; he could see her out of the corner of his eye still standing there.

"Mother, are you quite alr-..." he broke away, taken aback by her appearance.

It was his mother, he was almost certain of it, but he probably wouldn't have recognised her if he had passed her on the street. Her hair was different; she didn't have it tied back, but that wasn't all: the front was much shorter than the rest, lying straight down over her forehead. She was dressed differently too, quite like a man- she was wearing trousers! He wondered if she'd been talking to Sybil again. For herself, his mother was still standing there, looking highly confused.

"Young man," she spoke in quite a soft voice, not quite timid but definitely unsure, "Who are you? Why do you keep calling me Mother? I don't have any children."

"Wha-? Now, Mother," he spoke quite firmly, rather astounded that such words should ever pass his mother's lips, "Sybil may have been putting odd ideas into your head, but I don't think there's any need for-..."

"Who's Sybil?" she asked, apparently in earnest, as she sank slowly into the seat opposite him, perching anxiously on the end of the chair,"Can you tell me where I am? What am I doing here?"

"Mother, you live here, we're at home" he told her gently, "And you know who Sybil is, she's our cousin. You like her, don't you?" he spoke slowly, as if addressing a child- he didn't know what else to do.

"There's a man upstairs," she told him, "He was dressed in some kind of suit, even in the morning. I saw him in the hall as I got out of bed. And do you know what he asked me? He asked me- very politely, mind you- why I was wearing trousers!" she laughed, as if quite enchanted by such a question, "I mean, can you imagine? What a thing to ask!"

Matthew was very, very puzzled by now.

"That would be Molesley," he concluded, at least able to settle on the identity of the man, "But, I rather wondered myself, Mother. Why _are _you wearing trousers?"

She looked rather taken aback; as if he was quite mad.

"Well, would you prefer it that I didn't?" she asked, "Clothing has been known to protect the modesty, young man."

"Yes, I do realise that," he replied, feeling himself colouring furiously to here his own mother making such unexpected allusions, "I merely meant that-... Would you like to see the doctor?" he asked, an idea suddenly occurring to him.

She almost went pale.

"The Doctor?" she repeated, "Yes," she said, realisation dawning in her face, "That's why I'm here. I might have known that he's have something to do with this! I should have guessed!"

"I don't think he's got anything to do with anything, Mother," he told her wearily, "But if you're feeling strange, I certainly think you should see Dr. Clarkson as soon as possible."

"You didn't say Dr. Clarkson before," she told him, rather sharply, "You said The Doctor."

"Yes, Dr. Clarkson-..."

"I don't want to see Dr. Clarkson!" she repeated, standing up and pacing back and forth quite distractedly, "He's no good!"

"But, mother, you like Dr. Clarkson."

Usually it was all he could do to keep them away from each other. But still it was no good.

"I need to get back," she told him, looking highly distressed, "I'll be missed, there'll be a search, they can't manage without me."

"Who can't?"

"Why, the country of course. Young man, don't you know who I am?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," he remarked wryly, not taking her question seriously.

Searching for a second in her pocket, she withdrew an odd little pocketbook with a picture in it and held it up.

"Harriet Jones, Prime Minister."

…**Isobel**

"Ma'am, ma'am, wake up."

Isobel groaned. Light was flooding in through the window.

"You've overslept, but it's alright, I've managed to hold the Chancellor for an hour so you can get ready."

She sat up, propping herself up on her hand, and shielding her face from the light. She was rather concerned by the fact that Molesley was apparently impersonating a woman's voice, and rather convincingly.

"The chancellor? What?" she leapt out of bed, "What on earth is Mr Lloyd George doing in my house?"

The young woman at the window blinked in confusion.

"Ma'am, Mr Lloyd George hasn't been the chancellor for a very long time. Has-..." the girl eyed her curiously, "Ma'am has your hair grown overnight?"

"No, my hair's exactly as it was yesterday. And according to the paper yesterday, at any rate, Mr Lloyd George is certainly the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Lord Asquith is the Prime Minister."

The girl certainly looked taken aback.

"No, ma'am," she said slowly, "The Prime Minister is you."

Isobel was stunned.

"What do you mean, the Prime Minister is me?" This really was adding insult to injury! "I can't hold a seat in Parliament; I don't even have a vote!" A thought suddenly occurred to her, "Are you a hoax from the conservatives trying to disrupt the party by telling a woman she's Prime Minister? Or is this another idea of Mrs Pankhurst's, and if so why didn't she tell me about it first?"

"Ma'am, sit down, won't you?" the girl quickly drew out a chair from behind the desk, "I'll fetch the doctor."

"Oh, yes, send for Richard," this was some considerable relief to Isobel, "He knows who I am!"

"So do I, Prime Minister. Stay here, I'll telephone."

"Oh, do we have a telephone now?"

"Downing Street has had telephones since 1914, ma'am."

Isobel very much wanted to cry.

"But it's only 1912," she muttered to herself, sinking into the chair, feeling quite helpless.

**End.**

**Please review if you have the time. **


	2. Chapter 2

**For Fourteen Hundred Hours- my absolute Sir of a reader. **

The morning did not progress well. Despite having declared again to the young man, the man in a suit from upstairs _and _a woman who came in from the kitchen- who came to see what the commotion was about- exactly who she was and what her job was- not neglecting to supply them with documented proof- they still did not seem to grasp that she was not who they all apparently thought she was. The young man insisted on calling her his mother and telling her to calm herself; the other man looked quite terrified and said he did not know what to do at all; and the woman made her exit, declaring she was much better off in the kitchen. So, Harriet was left to sit awkwardly at the breakfast table alone with the two men. It might have almost been an acceptable way to pass the time, except that they really did seem perturbed by the fact that she was wearing trousers, and both kept glancing at her legs, with expressions of great trepidation. She never usually had this kind of trouble, even with her Cabinet ministers. Well, most of them, anyway.

It transpired that this Clarkson fellow had in fact been sent for. She was led back up to "her" room; and as she lay on the bed waiting for him to arrive, she pondered what on earth she was doing here. The only likely conclusions she came to were either that this was a spectacularly realistic dream- there was still hope on that front, although it did not _feel_ like a dream- or that it was something to do with The Doctor; a mix-up relating to that Tardis machine of his. This eventuality caused her rather more apprehension; if that really was what had happened it was probably a case of her having to wait here until he found her.

Speaking of waiting, this Dr. Clarkson had arrived. She was rather disconcerted by the fact that he had entered without knocking. Apparently he was too, almost as if it was a habit he had forgotten to disguise. Harriet raised her eyebrows to herself. Whoever this Mrs Crawley that everyone seemed to take her for was, she was apparently a bit of dark horse. The doctor however, seemed to have himself in check now.

"Mrs Crawley," Definitely keeping himself in check, she thought, far too formal.

"No," she told him, sitting up, picking up her passport from the bedside table in exasperation, "Harriet Jones, Prime Minister."

He blinked a couple of times.

"I see," he stated, at last.

Well, at least this doctor fellow had the decency not to scoff at her like the others had.

"I'm so pleased," she told him curtly, "Now, my good man, would you do me the courtesy of answering a few questions?"

"By all means," he looked rather as if he could think of nothing else to say than too go along with her.

"Excellent. Have a seat, won't you?" she indicated to the chair on the other side of the bedside table, and the doctor sat, "Now, would you tell me what year it is, please?"

"1912."

"Very well," she sighed a little to herself. Given the fashion of dress that everyone seemed to be wearing it was as recent as she could have hoped for, but still a good 88 years out of her comfort zone, "And who is the Prime Minister, again?" she questioned, unable to remember, "Is it Lloyd George?"

"Mr Lloyd George is the Chancellor of the Exchequer," he told her, "Mr Asquith is Prime Minister."

"Oh, thank God for that. A Liberal!" It would have been too bad if she had arrived in a year when the Tories were in power, they might have thought her a hoax sent by the opposition. She now considerably more relieved, and she relaxed a little. She actually smiled at him a little, thinking he was oddly handsome, in an Edwardian kind of way.

"And, Dr. Clarkson, if you wouldn't mind telling me, how long have you been in love with this Mrs Crawley?"

His mouth fell open a little. She smiled again.

"I do promise you, I am not her," she told him gently, "Look," she held out her passport for his closer inspection.

He examined it closely and, handing it back to her, seemed to decide that she must be telling the truth to have such an item in her possession.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"As Prime Minister, one learns above all else how to read faces," she told him, "And you keep gazing at mine rather fixedly. That and my legs, but everyone seems to be doing that here. I take it I must look very like Mrs Crawley, as seen as most people still think I'm her, and you keep looking at me rather... well, lovingly. It's fine," she told him when he looked embarrassed, "It's rather sweet of you, really."

He had turned a deep red at these last few words, but shortly collected himself.

"You _do _look very like her," he told her, "But your hair is rather different. And she never wears trousers. Not that she hasn't wondered about it a couple of times, mind you, in her more outlandish moments. Do you know how you're here?" he asked abruptly, "Because if you do then you may know where Isobel is."

She wondered how she could possibly explain her theory to him without him changing his mind about believing her.

"Let us just say that I have some very strange friends," she told him, "But with any luck my friend might come and find me. Then we can bring Isobel back for you."

…**...Isobel**

Isobel got the distinct impression that she was not who all of these people thought she was. She also got the impression that they were very keen for her to start running the country for them. Apart from the initial shock of the situation, she was now coming to see the benefits of it. After all, wasn't this what she'd been writing letters to her MP for the past four years for? Admittedly it was a bit sudden, all she had wanted was a vote, and now she was the Prime Minister! No matter, she would apologise to Lord Asquith for unwittingly deposing him later on.

Finally, she had got herself dressed. It transpired that she was in the actual Prime Minister's bedroom, and rooting around a little in the desk she had discovered that she was a woman called Harriet Jones. Not knowing the woman personally, Isobel felt a little uncomfortable about rifling through her wardrobe, but what else was she to do? It was either that or wearing her nightdress for a session of Parliament, and, though things certainly seemed to be a bit more liberal here, she hoped they weren't quite _that _liberal. In there she found a rather astonishing assortment of garments; many pair of trousers and short skirts, which one apparently wore without a corset! This day was becoming stranger by the moment! In the end she selected the trousers, not quite feeling comfortable with showing so much of her legs.

She was in her room, pacing back an forwards- trying to work out how exactly one walked in trousers without looking like a man- when the young girl who had been in before came in again.

"Oh thank goodness you're up," she remarked, seeing Isobel walking around, "Are you feeling better, Prime Minister?"

"Much better, thank you," Isobel replied, almost believing it herself.

"Oh, good. And have you given any thought to what you might like to say to the Chancellor about this year's budget?" she asked.

"No," Isobel told her, "I didn't even know I was supposed to be thinking about it. But I have thought of something," she declared with more confidence, almost triumph, even, "I think we should have a suffrage Bill introduced. No, I don't think, I know. We simply must introduce one: it's entirely unjust otherwise that I'm the Prime Minister at all."

The girl looked at her for a long moment.

"What sort of suffrage Bill?" she asked, "Prime Minister, if you don't mind me asking, exactly who are you planning to enfranchise?"

Isobel stared back with equal incredulity.

"Why, women, of course!" she replied with a laugh, "Honestly! Who else would I want to enfranchise?"

The girl still looked very doubtful.

"Ma'am," she began gently, resting a hand on Isobel's shoulder, "Ma'am, I think you'd better sit down. Women were first given the vote in 1918. They gained equal voting rights to men in 1928."

For a moment Isobel was truly delighted.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" she exclaimed, "Really wonderful! I must tell Sybil, she'll be thrilled!"

The girl was standing there looking terribly concerned again, and also a little frightened. The smile drained slowly from Isobel's face.

"Ma'am, stay here, I'm just going to check where the doctor's got to."

By this time Isobel had deduced that she probably didn't mean Richard.

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